


La Vida Mocha

by armadil_Lo



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Fake AH Crew, M/M, Origin Story, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Starbucks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-22 09:31:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10694238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armadil_Lo/pseuds/armadil_Lo
Summary: Months after the fall of the infamous Fake AH Crew, gang activity is still booming. Jeremy was left in the dust after the crew he worked with was busted for selling out the Fakes, and now he’s returned to underground fighting. Despite money running thin, he has found himself spending every afternoon possible with the cute new guy at Starbucks. Little does he know that Ryan is actually far less innocent than he seems.





	La Vida Mocha

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Jeremwood Coffeeshop/FAHC AU that spawned from a whole bunch of tumblr posts and asks that culminated in me being the most inspired to write that I have been in a long time. If you want to see the origins of this AU (and get an idea of where this fic is heading, prob some spoilers though), please check out the tag I have on my blog [here](http://armadil-lauren.tumblr.com/tagged/jeremwood+coffeeshop+fahc+au).
> 
> Basically this AU is ridiculous but it took over my blog and my life in like a day and this happened. I don't know how long this fic is going to be, all I know is that it’s probably going to be a monster. Let’s hope I can actually stick to a chaptered fic with a semi-regular update schedule for the first time in years lol. :')

By all standards, it’s a fairly ordinary day when the Fake AH Crew goes under.

It’s summer in Los Santos, which means it’s humid as all hell, traffic is marginally better than most other times of the year, and gang activity is skyrocketing. In fact, Jeremy’s been recently hired by a small crew by the name of Pyrite. It’s no Fake AH Crew by any means, but it’s a name he actually recognised when their frontman approached him after another win at the underground fighting syndicate. He may only be doing grunt work for them, but it’s the first time he really feels like he might be moving up in the world since making the move to Los Santos.

Jeremy and another brute are delegated to play bodyguard for the frontman at a potentially dangerous deal, but it all goes over smoothly. Him and the others leave the deal pleased, frontman swinging a briefcase from his hand. “The boss will be _very_ pleased about this information,” he says with a wicked smile. And Jeremy thinks nothing of it. Jeremy actually hasn’t even met his boss yet – he’s barely been working with Pyrite for a over a week.

He and a couple others are sent out in the afternoon for stakeout duty, swapping with the ones who took the morning shift. It’s a hot day and the warmth is stifling in the car, but he dicks around on his phone to pass the time. The two in the front seats don’t pay him much attention, the target never shows up and before they know it, it’s five o’clock and their replacements are knocking on the passenger side window.

Jeremy really should be suspicious when he gets back to base to see the frontman and vanguard sniggering behind a file. From what he’s seen, he’s pretty sure the two of them don’t like each other. What’s even weirder is when the _boss himself_ comes out of the office behind them, claps them on the shoulders and says, “It’s done.” Jeremy can’t help but stare at the three of them laughing maniacally in the corner but is distracted by the treasurer across the room calling out his alias.

“What are they laughing about?” Jeremy whispers as he walks up to her, still a little scared of Pyrite’s leader. He’s a beast of a man and rarely shows his face around people other than his inner circle.

The treasurer huffs and rolls her eyes. “I don’t even know. Out of the loop as per usual. Now, what were you up to today, Rimmy?”

Jeremy tells her the two jobs he was on and watches her count out a wad of notes. The way Pyrite runs their crew is definitely unorthodox, but it seems to be working for them. Getting paid in cash for each day he works is fine by Jeremy – it’s the first time he’s had a steady income in years, he’s not about to complain. She hands him his pay in an envelope with a smile and he wishes her a good evening as he leaves.

Jeremy walks home, because not owning a single vehicle means you walk everywhere, and he doesn’t think twice about the sirens or the helicopters or the small billow of smoke coming out of one of the tallest buildings in the city. He doesn’t think twice about the man with an earpiece exclaiming in shock, the people in their cars furiously texting at every stop light, the happy children’s grins as they skip past him singing, “They’re gone, they’re gone, they’re gone!” He barely even notices.

He’s unlocking the door to his shitty little apartment when his phone buzzes in his back pocket. The text is from one of his new co-workers, Matt, the only one he’s really gotten along with so far. All it says is _Turn on the news channel ASAP!!!_ So Jeremy flops down on his shitty little sofa, picks up the remote and turns on his shitty little television.

What he sees makes his jaw drop.

It’s a fairly ordinary day when the Fakes go under. But then, most days do seem ordinary at first, don’t they?

* * *

“Today, LSPD received an anonymous tip on the whereabouts of the infamous Fake AH Crew’s main base of operations,” the reporter on the screen states. “Officers arrived at the scene – a penthouse in the heart of the city – only to find a raging fire inside. It is being speculated that the Fake AH Crew did this themselves in an attempt to cover their tracks. However, firefighters managed to put out the blaze and detectives were cleared to enter after a short period. Evidence is piling up that this was indeed the criminals’ main hideout, right under our very noses. Intelligence are looking into the salvaged cellphones and credit cards left behind and the LSPD are on a manhunt for the members of the elusive cr–”

Geoff abruptly snatches the remote from Jack and switches the television off.

“I want to know _who_ did it, I want to know _how_ they did it, and I want to know _where_ they are so I can fucking strangle them,” Geoff growls.

Ryan has seen Geoff angry before. He’s seen Geoff angry plenty of times, actually. He’s seen Geoff jokingly angry, drunk angry, angry in stress or in worry. He has never once seen the man as absolutely _livid_ as he is right now. Geoff shoves the remote back in Jack’s hands and resumes his pacing, a thunderous glare on his face.

It’s not like Ryan isn’t mad as well. Their man inside the LSPD hadn’t been quick enough to erase the tip before clean cops were on top of it and before they knew what was happening, they had minutes to gather whatever they could take and light as much evidence on fire as possible on their hasty way out of the penthouse. Whoever sold them out will have hell to pay, that’s for sure.

Ryan looks over at Gavin, who’s typing away on his laptop. He’s been practically glued to that thing for hours. Shoulders tense, face pinched, fingers flying. Ryan knows he’s desperately trying to combat the moves of the LSPD hackers as they attempt to look into whatever information they’ve found. Michael is sitting next to him on the couch, their shoulders touching. He’s watching Gavin’s screen with a lost expression.

Lost is not something Michael is very often. And it’s not just because he doesn’t understand what Gavin is doing.

“Geoff, calm down, things will be fine,” Jack is trying to say. Her hands are raised now in an attempt to placate him.

“Calm down? Are you fucking _kidding_ me, Jack?” Geoff snaps, and she flinches a little. “Some fucking asshole ratted us out and now we’re in our oldest and shittiest safehouse with no idea if the pigs can find us here. We left behind the safe of money, we left behind all of our vehicles, we left behind most of our phones and wallets. We only have the fucking clothes on our backs, three pistols and a machete between us. _How_ exactly is this going to be _fine?”_

Jack presses her lips together, eyes shining. There’s nothing she can say, really.

Geoff sighs into the silence and rubs his hands over his face. “Gav, as soon as you’re done covering our tracks, I want you to figure out who the _fuck_ did this to us.”

Geoff slumps a little and turns away, heading into the kitchen muttering about needing some alcohol.

Jack looks between the others and her eyes land on Ryan. He’s leaning against the far wall with his arms folded and hasn’t spoken a word yet. Ryan knows he looks blank, hard. Jaw set and eyes cold. He’s wearing as much of a mask now as he does when he puts on the skull.

“Aren’t you angry, too?” Jack asks now. Ryan almost snorts at that.

“I want to flay their skin and chop them into a hundred tiny pieces,” he deadpans in response instead. Michael makes a vaguely disgusted noise.

Jack sighs as well and Ryan can practically see the gears turning in her head. “I’m the only one who still has my wallet, right?”

“Yeah,” Gavin chimes in. “Yours is the only effing credit card they’re not trying to get into.” His eyes are still firmly on his screen but the constant typing has paused.

“So, theoretically, I could go out and buy us supplies,” Jack says slowly. Michael finally looks up at her and nods eagerly. “We still have Hardy at the bank and Burton at the real estate agent’s – they can probably help me find a new place for us. Temporarily,” she adds hastily. She takes a deep breath and continues. “After this blows over a bit, we can start thinking about clothes and ammo.”

“We should pick this place clean,” Michael suggests. “Maybe burn it after we leave, too. Just in case the pigs track us down. There’s gotta be some food and shit left here, right?” Jack nods and gives him a grateful smile.

Ryan has to admit, it sounds better than waiting here to get swarmed by the LSPD. It’s not a solution by any means, but it’s a start.

“Ryan, you’ll come with me for backup tomorrow. Just in case.”

He frowns in confusion. _“What?_ Everyone knows the Vagabond.”

“Not without the mask,” Jack corrects softly.

Ryan jolts at the thought, staring at her with a horrified expression. Something rises in his throat.

“You’re the only one who wouldn’t get recognised on the streets,” Jack tells him. “We can go out early and get some temporary hair dye for me or something, but I- I can’t go anywhere alone right now. None of us can.” She takes the few steps towards him and puts a gentle hand on his arm. “You’re the safest option.”

Ryan swallows. “And I suppose it helps that I’m proficient with the only kinds of weaponry we have left,” he snarks, because it’s all he can say.

Jack gives him the smile that she _knows_ he’ll always give in to and pats his arm. “Think about it.” Then she, too, turns and walks out of the room.

Ryan pinches the bridge of his nose. He listens to the sound of Gavin’s resumed typing, of Michael’s slow but heavy breathing. Eventually, he takes a seat in the armchair across from them and leans his head back to look at the ceiling.

Eventually, he tells the two of them to go to bed. He’ll take watch, because of course he will, and this place only has two bedrooms anyway. Geoff and Jack will want one, so Michael and Gavin can share the other. At least they won’t fall asleep here and wake up with cricks in their necks tomorrow. The two lads reluctantly agree and head off down the hallway.

Eventually, Geoff stumbles from the kitchen towards the bedroom too, a bottle of whiskey in his hand.

Eventually, Ryan walks around the small safehouse and flicks off all of the lights and then he is alone in the darkness with his thoughts.

This is really bad. This is worse than a bump in the road. This is worse than a heist not going exactly to plan. This is worse than when Ray up and left out of the blue. This is really, _really_ bad.

* * *

It doesn’t take long for Jeremy to figure out who the anonymous tipper was.

It shocks him. It really, truly shocks him.

See the thing is, Jeremy always admired the Fakes. Always looked up to them, appreciated what they stood for as a crew. They always seemed so close and it was something Jeremy dreamed about having one day. He’s almost upset that they’ve been taken down and seem to have completely disappeared. Scratch that, he _is_ actually a little upset.

And it really does not help that he has only been working for Pyrite for little over a week when his boss royally fucks over the criminals who are in charge of the city. Or, they were.

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand how his boss got ahold of the information. He doesn’t understand what the intention is. But most importantly, he doesn’t understand _why_. Why sell out the Fake AH Crew? They’ve been running Los Santos for years now, and by criminal standards, don’t actually seem like bad people. It feels wrong. Jeremy doesn’t care if his boss was in it for money or for power – it feels _wrong_.

It’s a few days later that he learns why.

He’s called into work by the frontman, who claims they’re having a meeting of sorts. It seems more like a gathering when Jeremy gets there – everyone who’s on the crew’s payroll is at the base, it seems. Not to say that that’s a lot of people, Pyrite being just one of many gangs in Los Santos with a tiny bit of territory to call their own. There’s still roughly twenty or so people there, a couple of them Jeremy has never seen before. He makes a beeline for Matt, of course, who’s standing in the corner looking artificially disinterested.

“What’s going on?” Jeremy hisses. The atmosphere in the room is strange. Some people are making small talk – that’s mostly the brutes – but there’s quite a few who look worried. The vanguard and treasurer are pressed closely together by the door to the leader’s office. They’re both shaking.

“I have no idea, dude,” Matt claims, a little louder than necessary. Jeremy fixes him with an odd look and glances him up and down. Matt’s hands are shaking and he leans closer. He looks around the room quickly before whispering, “I think we’re in trouble.”

“What do you mean?” Jeremy asks quietly.

“I mean, I think someone has the same kind of intel on us as we did on–” Matt breaks off abruptly and looks at Jeremy from under his glasses and shaggy hair. There are dark circles beneath his eyes.

Jeremy inhales sharply. “You _knew?”_

Matt shakes his head. “Not all of it. Just pieces. I- Jeremy, he just played our _one_ trump card. But they didn’t care.” He starts wringing his wrists.

“Who’s _they?”_ Jeremy demands. Matt opens his mouth to speak and then the room falls silent.

There are sirens. They’re in the distance for now, but you’d be stupid not to be afraid of that noise nowadays. LSPD have been cracking down on every criminal network they can get their hands on lately, not just the Fakes. Everybody in the room goes tense at the sound, some eyes flicking between the windows and doors. Matt shrinks in on himself in the corner. The sirens are gradually getting louder and louder but nobody moves. Everybody’s frozen and pale _nobody moves_ until the sirens are so close they’re right outside, accompanied by running engines and screeching tires, and the boss comes charging out of his office and just yells one word.

_“Shit!”_

And Jeremy knows it’s all over.

Chaos ensues. The boss immediately makes a run for it out the back, dragging a couple brutes with him for protection supposedly. People start bustling and shouting and running for the armoury, but the frontman steps out and blocks them from getting in, trying to calm everyone down. The sirens stop, but the red and blue lights are flashing through the windows now. Jeremy takes a step and feels Matt’s hand on his arm, stopping him. He glances back, ready to shake him off and get _moving_ –

A loud booming noise makes the world shake and Jeremy is thrown to the ground. There are more shouts now, aggressive and demanding, LSPD pooling in from where the breaching charge – bomb? Grenade? – gave them an opening. The muscle of Pyrite start fighting back immediately and Jeremy lifts his head groggily to watch one get tasered and another pinned down and pummelled by three cops. Gunshots start sounding from the far end of the room, where the armoury was, and _holy shit Jeremy doesn’t have any weapons on him._

He scrambles to his feet and sprints for the nearest window. All of the windows in the building are high up, but with a running jump Jeremy is able to grasp onto the windowsill with his fingertips and kick off the wall until he pulls himself into a better position. He’s barely even thinking as he throws a fist through the glass and makes quick work clearing it out of the pane as much as possible. Jeremy hoists himself through – and then feels hands on his ankles. He frantically kicks out, not knowing or caring who it might be, and wriggles the rest of the way.

He falls ungraciously to the ground outside and lies there for a moment, breathing heavily, listening to the gunshots and yelling echoing out from the window. His hand has been shredded by the glass and he landed on his shoulder funnily but he pulls himself up off of the ground and starts running.

He starts running and he keeps running, down back alleys and side streets, hopping fences and staying in shadows. He keeps running, heartbeat pounding in his ears, holding his shoulder with his cut-up hand, blood trickling down his arm and wounds faintly pulsing. He avoids the streets and the noises of traffic and quickly zips around corners when he sees someone heading his way. In the warehouse district of Los Santos, it’s easy to disappear. Jeremy knows nobody followed him, but he keeps running away.

He runs until he can’t run anymore, until his legs are aching and breathing feels like sandpaper in his throat and his vision flashes. He stops and looks behind himself, just once. There’s still nobody following him. So he rests for a minute, gathers his bearings, and starts walking in the direction of his apartment.

He gets some odd looks from people as he walks past them on the busier streets, but honestly a little blood isn’t anything someone living in Los Santos is shocked by. And when he finally makes it to his apartment building almost an hour later, he slams and fumbles to lock the door behind him. He’s shaking violently as he quickly moves around the space and throws every curtain shut. Then he drops onto the couch and pulls his knees to his chest, staring blankly at the floor.

Time passes. At one point, Jeremy numbly cleans himself up in the bathroom. His shoulder is just bruised, the cuts on his hand are mostly superficial. When he comes back into the main room, he finds himself restlessly switching between checking his phone for any word from Matt and spying out of his window to see if LSPD, or even Pyrite, tracked him down after he ran. He paces for a long time, catches himself staring into the half-empty refrigerator, bounces his leg anxiously when he sits down. 

The silence becomes overwhelming.

Jeremy turns on the TV, just for white noise, just for something to listen to in the background. It doesn’t even really register that he’s left it on the news channel since spending the last few days anxiously following any updates on the Fake AH Crew.

He supposes this is an update of sorts, too.

“–were arrested at the scene and a further three died in the shootout that occurred.” Jeremy freezes. “The gang’s leader fled as LSPD arrived and police pursued him on foot and were able to apprehend him. A local captured the moment from a safe distance on their mobile device.”

And then they’re playing some grainy footage that shakes as it zooms in. There are two cop cars parked haphazardly in the middle of the road, three LSPD officers in armoured vests standing with guns all trained on…

 _“I took down the Fakes!_ I _sold out the Fake AH Crew before I went down, I don’t give a_ shit _what you do to me now!”_

Jeremy’s boss is being dragged towards the open back door of one of the cars. He’s struggling, and paired with the blatant fear in his voice, it’s a bit of a contrast to what he’s saying. Then he’s shoved into the vehicle and it cuts back to the reporter standing in front of a green screen.

“Police will be further questioning the man to see if he has any more information on the Fake AH Crew.”

They move onto other topics after that and Jeremy lets his mind wander, tuning out the background noise he initially wanted.

LSPD never comes after him. Pyrite never tracks him down. Matt never contacts him. 

Jeremy was alone for a long time before he was picked up by this small crew – and he’s alone again now.

* * *

The Fake AH Crew go from a luxurious penthouse in the center of Los Santos, to some small townhouse on the outskirts.

There are two bedrooms, a tiny study that they put a mattress in for Ryan, a conjoint kitchen-dining-lounge area and one bathroom. Which all means they have zero privacy.

See, the Fakes are used to working together. They’re used to hearing each other over the comms, looking out for each other on jobs, spending a night or two in a spare room at the penthouse. They are used to each retiring to their own various apartments at the end of a long week. What they are not used to is living with each other.

Disagreements have been quick to pop up over the last couple of weeks, particularly about bathroom habits. Ryan’s taken to using the shower in the early hours of the morning and slipping out to the front porch or small backyard whenever he hears the knocking and shouting start. It seems ridiculous that for such a ‘close-knit’ crew, spending so much time with each other in an enclosed space is doing them more harm than anything else.

Geoff calls a meeting in the living room and the five of them gather in the small space. Geoff and Jack take seats at the dining table, Gavin and Michael on the loveseat and Ryan perches on one of the arms. At least the place came pre-furnished.

“Alright, so, Jack and I have been talking about some more long-term arrangements,” Geoff starts. The lines on his face seem to have gotten deeper recently. “Crimes are way too fucking risky to try pull off right now with the pigs on high alert. I’m gonna be recognised if I take one step out of this place so I’m stuck as dicks for now. And since we can’t access any of our savings, money is going to become a bit of an issue here.”

“I’m going to start going around and doing recon soon,” Jack tells them. “Checking in on our allies and suppliers for now, but if we’re going to make some ground work then I’m going to have to get busy as soon as possible. I can’t keep playing diffuser here,” she adds with a meaningful look to Michael and Geoff. 

Geoff at least has the decency to look a little apologetic before he continues. “That means the rest of you need to get busy, too.”

Ryan frowns. “And what exactly will that entail?”

“Jobs!” Geoff announces gleefully. The lads glance between each other in confusion. “Real jobs,” Geoff clarifies. “Posing as civilians.”

“But we’ll get recognised!” Gavin splutters.

“Ryan and I haven’t been recognised yet,” Jack points out. “Disguising ourselves as ordinary people is actually working. Civilians aren’t looking for a guy in dad jeans or a brunette in a pencil skirt. They’re looking for the _Vagabond_ , for _Pattillo_. And they’re looking for Mogar and the Golden Boy, too. They’re looking for our _personas_ – not us.”

“Okay, yeah, but how the fuck are we meant to get jobs without resumes and shit?” Michael asks. He doesn’t look too uncomfortable with the idea, not like Ryan was when Jack first pitched it to him a few nights ago. Gavin seems displeased but doesn’t look necessarily opposed to it either.

“Fakehaus have a forger at our disposal,” Geoff says. “Lawrence is gonna fake your records and experience and shit. He’ll send new IDs in the mail for you.”

“Didn’t we already borrow Peake from them?” Gavin asks.

“Yes, Gav, because I don’t want you going anywhere near the remnants of Pyrite. He can look into it for us, it’s too dangerous for you right now,” Geoff explains for what feels like the hundredth time. Gavin pouts like he has been for the last week and a half and Ryan rolls his eyes.

“Okay, so for Lawrence to be able to do that for us,” Jack steers the conversation back to the topic, “You three need to start thinking about your civilian disguises.” She makes eye contact with Ryan and he nods. He sees Michael and Gavin do the same.

“Great. Think of it like a… flatmate arrangement,” is what Geoff leaves them with as he stands up and moves over into the kitchen. It’s almost amusing to Ryan how he seems to think that moving a few yards further away in the same room can signal the end of a conversation, but the others get the point and quickly disperse.

He’s sitting on his mattress in the study not ten minutes later when Gavin barges in.

“Jesus _Christ,_ Gavin, _knock_ next time,” he growls, putting his book aside.

Gavin just shrugs. “Ryan, would you be able to go out and get hair dye for my hair?” He waves a hand up at his coiffed, bleached-blonde hair. 

Ryan huffs a small sigh and stands. “Fine. What colour do you want?”

Gavin looks up at him with something akin to melancholy in his expression. “Something you wouldn’t think I’d put anywhere near my head even if I were given a million dollars.”

Ryan gives him a small smile and pats him on the shoulder. “Do you know where Michael left his keys?”

“They’re on the coffee table.”

Ryan nods and gestures for Gavin to leave the room ahead of him. He follows the lad out to the living room and picks up Jack’s wallet from the kitchen bench and Michael’s keys from the coffee table. It’s the one vehicle they have left with them - Michael’s most inconspicuous vehicle. The one they all piled into for their hurried escape, the one they knew cops wouldn’t tail. Ryan steps out of the front door and sees it there, parked in the driveway.

A simple, silver prius. No personalised plates, no vibrant colours, no flashy accessories. Not the kind of car you would expect the Fakes to own. And it was lucky Michael still did, actually. He’d used it once or twice for a short undercover stint over a year ago. Ryan doesn’t know how things might’ve gone down had they been forced to hop into one of Geoff’s hot pink atrocities for their getaway.

Ryan’s been the one running errands mostly, since he’s the only one whose face isn’t plastered all over the media. It took him many months to gradually stop wearing the mask around the others and being thrust into the public without it for the first time in many years is terrifying in its own regard. So when he pulls up to the local convenience store, something not unlike paranoia makes him put his hood up despite the sunny weather.

The cashier greets him with a warm smile when he steps inside. Ryan ducks his head and immediately scurries off down the aisles.

He’s pretty sure he robbed this store a couple years ago.

He comes across a small selection of hair dyes. Most of them are natural colours, nothing outrageous. He’s tossing up between a gothic black and a bright red when a woman with a basket already full of other items turns into the aisle and glances over at him. He snatches up a random box without looking at it and speed-walks into the next aisle. 

He forces himself to stop and take a deep breath. _Nobody knows who he is_. He looks down at the dye he picked up - a gross, muddy blonde colour. It’ll do. He looks up and starts to make a beeline for the counter, but on his way stops and also picks up a can of diet coke. He avoids eye contact with the cheery cashier as she scans his items and asks him if he’d like a bag. By the time he’s rushing out of the store, he can practically _feel_ her eyes on him.

His heart is pounding on the drive back and he finds his eyes flickering to the rear view mirror more than necessary. But no one follows him, no car or police tails him back to the safehouse. 

Jack and Michael are having a quiet discussion on the front porch when he returns. Michael seems tense and Jack puts a hand on his shoulder, muttering reassuringly. Ryan shuffles awkwardly and tosses Michael’s keys back to him when they make eye contact. Michael catches them in one hand, gives him a nod and goes back to listening to Jack.

Gavin’s sprawled across the sofa, lazily flicking through the channels on the small television, but he leaps up when he sees Ryan. “What colour did you get me then?” He grimaces when Ryan holds out the box to him.

“It’ll probably just look like your natural hair,” Ryan points out.

“The colour I’ve been bloody bleaching for years,” Gavin sighs as he takes the hair dye. “Thanks, lovely Ryan.” He disappears into the bathroom and Ryan takes his spot on the couch.

After some time, Michael and Jack come inside. She sits him down at the dining table and goes rummaging through the kitchen draws. She produces a pair of scissors from one of them and puts them down on the table.

“How short are we talking?” she murmurs, running her fingers through Michael’s curls. Ryan raises an eyebrow.

“As short as you think will work,” Michael says, shrugging. He fidgets in his seat.

“Haircut?” Ryan asks.

“The long curls are a dead giveaway,” Jack responds, looking over at him. “I think he’ll look older with something shorter.”

“Just don’t make me look like Ray that one time,” Michael jokes. Jack smiles, though it’s strained. They don’t talk about Ray much anymore. 

As he hears the shower start running and watches Jack lift the scissors to Michael’s hair, Ryan idly wonders if Ray has heard the news. If he knows that they’re in trouble. If he’s still in Los Santos, even. He doubts it. But he wonders all the same.

Jack spends a long time carefully trimming Michael’s hair. It had been growing out quite long but bit by bit it falls away. Ryan goes between watching the process and channel surfing. He settles on an old rerun of a sitcom and is engrossed in it enough that by the time he glances back over his shoulder, Michael looks completely different. Jack was right – he does look older. She’s cropped it quite short on the sides but left the top just a little bit longer in small curls. Without his hair framing his face, his jawline looks harder and his freckles stand out a bit more.

Jack stands back and admires her work, brushing away some stray hairs from Michael’s shoulders.

“All done,” she says and moves to clean up the mess. Michael thanks her and wanders down the hallway. Ryan hears him pound on the bathroom door, where the shower stopped running a few minutes ago, and then murmured voices.

Michael returns moments later wearing his glasses and plops down into the armchair.

A beat of silence. “Is that your disguise? Seriously? Just a haircut and glasses?” Ryan almost sneers. 

“Why not?” Michael shrugs. “So long as I’m not playing with explosives or pointing a fucking minigun at anyone, I think it’ll be fine.”

“He’s like Clark Kent,” comes Gavin’s voice from the doorway.

Ryan turns and has to do a double take. Michael may look different, but Gavin looks like a whole new person. He hasn’t styled his hair, left it flat over his forehead, the almost-brunette colour given a subtle golden tint from the previous bleaching. He’s shoved one of Michael’s beanie’s over his head and removed the countless number of facial piercings. In a pair of sweatpants and a band tee, Gavin looks the farthest from his Golden Boy persona as he possibly could be.

He catches Ryan’s eye and gives him an awkward smile. Ryan returns it. 

Jack finishes disposing of Michael’s hair and stands between Michael and Gavin. She gives the three of them a once-over, her own hair tied back in a bun and the dark brown dye already turning an auburn colour. Her bright Hawaiian shirts nowhere to be seen. 

The four of them all look between each other and exchange solemn expressions at the differences in their appearances. In the silence that follows, Ryan knows they finally feel it too. The change.

Their reign really is over.

* * *

If Jeremy wasn’t in a rough patch before Pyrite approached him, he sure as hell is now.

He used to run with a few different small groups of people doing light crimes on the side, though his main income was from the fighting syndicate. As soon as he got involved with Pyrite, he lost those contacts and all of his sponsors from the ring. He runs out of cash very quickly. It takes him a while to convince the manager to let him back in.

Rimmy Tim used to be a big name to underground fighters. Now, people seem to think he’s a sell-out for ever taking on crew work. It’s odd how quickly life moves on without you. Jeremy’s just glad he never told anyone who his employer was when he was leaving, or else they might’ve preferred to kick his ass rather than let him get back in the ring. Nobody is the particularly happy with the crew who made the Fakes disappear and LSPD crack down on all crime in the city twice as hard.

His first fight back is only going to be a small one, but it makes Jeremy nervous all the same. He knows he’s out of practice, and winning tonight may just be the difference between affording rent or not this month. It’s the only gig he’s managed to secure for the coming weeks.

He’s going to drive himself insane if he keeps pacing around his apartment until nightfall hits, so he finds himself walking down the street. He takes the familiar path to a local Starbucks, just a couple blocks away from his apartment. It’s his tradition, every afternoon before a fight. Just stepping into the place and breathing in the familiar aromas leaks some of the tension from his shoulders.

Jeremy hops in line and pulls out his wallet. He double checks that he has enough for his usual order – which he does, barely. He bites his lip, glancing up as the line moves forward. Maybe he shouldn’t be wasting his money on luxuries he can’t afford. But he’s already feeling off, he needs some normality to keep him calm, so fuck it. The cafe is quiet, just a couple others in line and three or four customers scattered around the tables. He steps up when it’s his turn and orders a caramel macchiato frappe.

“It’s Jeremy, right?” the girl at the register asks, her pen poised to write on the cup. He grins and nods. “Thought so. You haven’t been in here in a while.”

“Just got held up with work stuff more often,” he says vaguely and hands her the money. “I think that’s cleared up now though.” She gives him a smile with his change and wishes him a nice day, before turning to the next customer in line. He walks over to wait for his drink, fiddling with his phone and checking the time.

There’s a new barista behind the counter. It’s been about a month since Jeremy was last in here, but he can tell that this guy is brand new because the other employee is teaching him how to make the drink, their backs turned to Jeremy. The new guy is quite tall, has light brown hair tied back and an impressive build. He nods every now and then as he watches how the other barista makes the frappe. When she’s done with it, she gestures behind them in Jeremy’s direction. New guy picks up the drink and turns around.

“Jeremy?” he calls out, and then looks up.

_Wow, okay, he’s gorgeous._

Jeremy clears his throat, feeling his cheeks flush. “Yeah, that’s me.”

New guy places the drink in front of him and gives him a flash of a shy smile, dropping his gaze quickly and mumbling out a, “Here you go.”

 _Gorgeous_ and _shy. Huh._

“And you are?” Jeremy blurts out before he can stop himself.

The employee freezes where he was half-turned to go back to his coworker’s side and looks up again. The two of them lock eyes. Jeremy holds his breath, shocked that he even asked. He finds himself unable to move even as the new guy slowly turns back around and glances at him up and down in curiosity. 

“I, uh,” he stammers, then collects himself. “Ryan. I’m Ryan.”

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter is kind of a prologue, there will be a timeskip between here and the next chapter, and then the main events of the fic occur! 
> 
> Thank you Missy for beta reading this chapter <3
> 
> Come talk about the AU with me on [my tumblr!](http://armadil-lauren.tumblr.com) :)


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